


Like A Good Neighbor

by skarletfyre



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apartment AU, Gen, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, kind of ambiguous shipping??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3598980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Teufort Terrace apartment complex is home to many colorful characters, but only one of them is equipped to deal with a beaten and bloodied stranger banging on their door in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Good Neighbor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinuswave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuswave/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY [NANA!!!](http://sinuswave.tumblr.com)
> 
> so this is that thing that i promised you months and months ago but never got around to finishing until i realized how close your birthday was!! so! i am so sorry this whole thing is late, considering how long ago i said i was going to write it, but hopefully it lives up to your expectations!!
> 
> inspired by [this prompt](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/105687885958), but i took a lot of liberties?? like a lot. so many. whatever it's fine i get carried away a lot.
> 
> ALSO!!!
> 
> i used the same names for them that i use it WDITD/ADIFI because i actually started this before i wrote WDITD (let that give you an idea of just how fucking late this is) but these things are COMPLETELY UNRELATED. these are just kind of headcanon/placeholder names. but this has absolutely nothing to do with either of those fics okay it's its own thing. so. enjoy.

René hit the ground hard.

"Final warning!" a gruff voice shouted from the truck he had just been unceremoniously shoved out of, before the door slammed shut. The tires kicked up and dirt and gravel into his face as the vehicle tore away into the night, leaving him crumpled on the ground.

At least they had the courtesy to bring him home.

Getting to his feet was an ordeal. His ankle had been twisted in the fall, though it was definitely the least of his injuries. His side ached. There was a very good possibility that he had a broken rib, and judging by the way his head rattled when he turned it something up there had been knocked loose. The vertigo was almost nauseating. He fell down twice before managing to roll onto his hands and knees, then to push himself awkwardly into an upright position. He stood there for a moment, swaying, before getting his bearings.

The parking lot was dark. Never had he been so grateful for his absent landlords, or the resulting row of burned out street lights. The last thing he needed was for someone to see him staggering toward the building and call the police. Not that that was a very big worry. It was a rough neighborhood. There were a great many residents who had better reasons than his own for not wanting an officer on the premises.

Climbing the stairs up to his apartment was slow going agony. Had there always been this many steps? And why did they have to be so far apart? Lifting his legs and putting his feet in front of each other, ane after another and in order, was more of a challenge than he was used to.

When he finally slumped against the door to his little home, his sigh of relief quickly turned into a groan of frustration.

He didn't have his keys.

Or his wallet. Or his watch. Or - a brief and panicked search confirmed his fears - his cigarettes.

__"Merde."_ _

He gingerly reached up to feel around the top of his door frame for the spare key. It wasn't there. It wasn't there, because he had moved it four days ago after being robbed three times in one month.

René sighed heavily, letting his head fall forward to rest on the firmly locked door to his apartment.

Now what?

He had no phone. And no money. His car was locked, he didn't have his keys, and he was in no condition to be driving anyway. There was a really awful ringing in his ears now, and his ankle wasn't getting any better the longer he stood on it. He needed help.

There were no friendly neighbors in the Teufort Terrace apartment complex. There were no friendly neighbors in town, period. It was a cheap, seedy, mostly European little neighborhood most famous for its frequent police raids, ambulance calls, and occasional visits from poorly disguised FBI agents. No one really spoke to each other. When one neighbor was in trouble, all the others simply locked their doors and pulled their curtains righter. René himself was guilty of this, the last time the crazed American from C14 got into an argument with the enormous Russian man in A6. The Russians, at least, seemed to be decent, hardworking folk just trying to make ends meet. René suspected the American was a veteran of some sort. He had a disgusting penchant for clothing patterned with the stars and stripes of “this great country," and he was no stranger to conflict with any of his “foreign” neighbors.

In B4 lived the Black Scotsman and his blind mother, who wielded her cane like a sword and frequently used it as one. C2 housed a man that René was almost certain was Australian due to their single brief, uncomfortable elevator ride together - back when the elevator still was still functioning - at the end of which the man had tipped his hat and called him "mate."

The other Americans lived on the ground floor with the Russians. A single mother occupied A10. She was entirely too lovely for the frankly alarming number of children that she had, and the string of unwashed fellows that so often came calling when the lights were out. A1 was home to a blue collar gentleman from Texas. He was quiet and polite, and René was fairly certain he had called himself an engineer. René was also fairly certain he was a serial killer. There was nothing to prove this, of course. But the man owned a suspiciously large collection of power tools for someone living in such an enclosed space. The sound of a circular saw whirring at odd hours of the morning was a comfort to no one.

B12 was occupied. Everyone knew it was occupied, and everyone knew to stay away from it all costs.

Nobody that he knew of had ever seen the resident of B12. René lived in B11, and he had never even heard the front door open or close. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he thought he could hear breathing through the wall. Sometimes laughter. Mostly he just pulled the pillow over his ear and tried not to the think about it.

Most of the other apartments were empty, or home to people so unsavory that he wouldn't approach without a hazmat suit and a ten foot pole. That left only-

René could have kicked himself.

The Doctor.

Of course. The Doctor, in B9, only two doors down. How could he have forgotten.

The Doctor, as he had come to be called, was a German man a few years older than René who had lived at Teufort as long as anyone could remember. There was some debate among the tenants about whether or not he was _actually_ a doctor, given that the title appeared to have been scratched into the nameplate on his mailbox with a ballpoint pen. He didn't seem to keep to any hospital hours that René was familiar with, either.

But he'd helped the old Russian woman back to her feet when she fell down the stairs, and René had overheard him and the Texan having hushed, excited conversations beneath the balcony more than once. That wasn't exactly encouraging.

But, he was closest.

And René was in a bad enough situation that he didn't have much of a choice. So, he took a deep breath and limped the short ways down the hall.

 _"Hallo?"_ came the answer to his knock. René cleared his throat.

"Apologies, for bothering you so late," he said as loudly as he dared. "I live in B11. I- I need help."

Silence. He swallowed. He became acutely aware of his own accent, and how thick his voice was.

"You- you are a doctor, yes?" he asked hopefully, and was greeted with more silence. He was on the verge of giving up and finding a nice patch of earth to lie on until he either passed out and died or was arrested, when there was flurry of sound from behind the door. Many locks being unlocked, and many bolts being pulled aside. Finally, the door opened.

The man called the Doctor looked at him in shock.

René had never spoken to him before, never been close enough to get a good look at his face. He was tall, and handsome enough, with dark hair and small round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. His thick brows rose toward his hairline as he took in the amount of blood René was covered in.

"Come in, quickly," the man ushered, after a moment of staring, and René limped gingerly across the threshold into a surprisingly well furnished home.

He stood awkwardly on the mat while the Doctor meticulously relocked the door, not wanting to get dirt or blood on the carpet or any of the pristine furniture. He caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and cringed. There was blood all down the front of his suit, all of it his. The source was not a mystery. His nose had taken one of the first blows and easily shattered under the force, setting the tone for the rest of the night. Feeling it was one thing. Seeing it was quite another.

"Sit down, _bitte,"_ the Doctor urged, directing him toward the simple brown sofa. René sat carefully, wincing as he did so. It would feel good to lean back, but he didn't want to risk getting any stains on the cushions. No need to make this any more awkward than it already was. The Doctor seemed to notice his concern.

"Don't worry about the furniture," he said, waving a hand dismissively as he brushed past into what appeared to be the kitchen. René heard the sound of running water. "Take off your coat, I'll be right there."

If the Doctor was at all uncomfortable about having a bloodied-up stranger in his home in the middle of the night he certainly didn't show it.

Gingerly and with much wincing, René managed to peel off his suit jacket and fold it semi-neatly onto the arm of the sofa. He was in the process of loosening his tie when his host reappeared with a basin of water, a washcloth, and a bottle of antiseptic. He sat down on the sofa next to him and balanced the basin between his knees.

"Look up," he instructed, and René lifted his head obediently. He hissed when the damp cloth was pressed against the side of his cheek. The water was very hot.

"Your nose is broken," the German said, frowning. "We'll have to set that later. First we get you cleaned up."

"Thank you," René said automatically.

They lapsed into a not quite comfortable silence as the Doctor cleaned the blood from his face and neck. As he did so, René took the chance to have a look around.

He'd never been in any of the apartments besides his own. The layout was identical, but the furnishings were quite different. His living room wasn't exactly spartan - he considered himself to have good design sense and taste - but it wasn't quite as... _cozy_ as this place.

There was an overstuffed armchair in the corner, next to a little table with a chintzy lamp and a book on it. The title was in German. The walls were tastefully papered, a few decorative shelves here and there. There was a diploma of some kind in a frame, and a gruesome display of what appeared to be old medical instruments hanging in a case beneath it. Perhaps the man really was a doctor after all.

"May I ask what happened to you?" the Doctor asked, and René quickly shifted his prying gaze.

"I... ran afoul of some acquaintances," he said carefully. The Doctor raised an eyebrow. He swallowed. "I owe them money."

"I see."

That wasn't _entirely_ the truth, but he hoped it was enough to dispel suspicion. The truth, as all truths were, was slightly more complicated.

"Would you like some brandy?"

René blinked. The Doctor was wringing out the bloody washcloth now, setting the basin to the side. He was not wearing any gloves, and the sight of the steaming water slicking over the tendons of his hands and forearms was more than a little distracting.

"I'm sorry?"

"Brandy. Or whiskey, if you prefer. We need to set your nose, and it will be quite painful. The alcohol will help."

"Oh. Whiskey, _s'il vous plait."_

The Doctor smirked as he stood, taking the basin with him into the kitchen. He returned with a single glass and a half empty bottle of Scotch. He poured a moderate amount and handed the glass to René, who drank it quickly. The familiar burn against his dry throat made him cough, which made him scrunch up his nose, which made his face explode with pain. He held out the glass again. This time the Doctor poured a more generous amount.

"Thank you," René said, as the empty glass was taken from his hand. The other man settled back onto the seat beside him.

"Turn towards me, _bitte,"_ he instructed, "and try to remain still. This looks like a bad break. Deep breath..."

The Doctor's hands were large and surprisingly rough. René could feel the calluses on his fingers and palms as they were placed on his face. One hand gripped the side of his face, holding him still and tilting his chin up. The other carefully pinched the bridge of his nose, made a few adjustments for precision, and then-

René screamed.

Or he would have, had he not been clenching his teeth so tightly. The pain was terrible. Sharp and blinding and worse than the blow itself had been. He jerked away, blinking rapidly as tears sprung to his eyes.

"There!" the Doctor exclaimed cheerfully. "Good as new."

René glared at him. The alcohol had __not__ helped.

"You could have counted to three. Given me some warning, at least."

"Don't be such a baby,” the man tutted. “The break was not so bad as I expected, but you will still need to go to the hospital to have it properly splinted if you don't want it to heal crooked. Unfortunately I don't have the materials with me, or I would do it myself. I do, however, have something to stabilize that ankle, if you would like.”

René looked at the man, prodding tenderly at his newly mended nose. It _felt_ like it was back in place. Hardly good as new, but at least he was able to breathe through it again. The Doctor was looking at him expectantly. He nodded.

“You're very lucky to have caught me at home,” the German said conversationally, sinking to his knees on the floor in front of him, carefully lifting René's foot into his lap. “I'm usually working at this hour.”

“Which hospital do you work for?” René asked, wincing as his shoe was untied and slipped off his foot, along with his sock. The Doctor chuckled.

“Oh, no, I don't work at the hospital anymore.” He paused. “I make house calls.”

With his pant leg rolled up to his knee, René could see just how bruised his ankle had become since he'd limped inside. It hurt to put weight on it, and when the Doctor tried to roll it. He frowned, pressing his fingertips to different points of blotchy skin. After a moment, he got up and walked away without a word.

René peered after him, catching a glimpse of the room he entered down the hall. It was the bedroom, but the Doctor didn't appear to be using it as such. Through the narrow gap in the door, the only thing René could see were sturdy metal shelves and a large shape that might have been a chest of drawers, or a low wardrobe. It didn't look like a bedroom at all. He wondered idly if the Doctor was in the habit of sleeping on the couch, or if he had another residence at which he slept, considering the odd hours he kept.

René averted his eyes, pretending to examine his own fingernails as the Doctor returned. He had his arms full of what looked like Ace bandages and surgical tape. He dropped to his knees in front of the couch and pulled René's foot gently back into his lap.

He worked in methodical silence, unrolling the bandage wraps and cradling the wounded joint, keeping everything as aligned and painless as he could.

He seemed very familiar with this sort of injury, judging by how quickly he dealt with it. The wrapping was simple but effective, and he secured it with two little metal clips and a bit of tape to keep the whole thing from coming unrolled. He placed a hand René's good knee and pushed himself back to his feet. René experimentally tried to bend his ankle and found it mostly immobile.

"Thank you, __Docteur-__ _?"_

"Ah, Erik. Just Erik, if you don't mind."

The Doctor - _Erik -_ held out his hand. He took it.

"René."

Erik smiled at him. His teeth were very white, and very straight. It was a pleasing contract, between the lightness of his eyes and the darkness of his hair, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. A few years ago and he would have been a devastatingly handsome young man. Now, even the crinkles at the corners of his eyes seem to suit him.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, giving another squeeze of his hand before letting go. “Now, please remove your shirt."

René blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are favouring your left side and show distinct signs of discomfort when you breathe. I suspect you may have taken a blow to the ribs, am I correct?"

René thought back to the attack. Everything had gotten a little fuzzy after the third blow to the head, but he remembered coughing, and having something swung at him. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if they'd fractured a rib or two. He nodded, and Erik looked at him expectantly. He sighed and reached up to undo the buttons of his shirt.

The blood all down his front had mostly dried and begun to flake, but it still stained his fingertips as he worked each button through its hole. He winced as he shrugged the fabric off his shoulders, definitely feeling that pain in his side now. The shirt was taken from him and set aside and another generous helping of whiskey was pushed into his hand. He knocked it all back, anticipating that this next treatment would be somewhat more painful than the last. Erik sat beside him on the couch once more.

“Lift you arms, _bitte.”_

René complied. He tried not to squirm as his ribs were poked at. The Doctor's rough hands smoothed over his sides, threatening to reveal just how ticklish he really was. Instead of laughing, he sucked in a pained breath when a particularly tender portion of his side was jabbed at.

“Anything broken?” he asked through his teeth. Doctor Erik frowned and shook his head.

“ _Nein,_ only cracked. You were lucky. These friends of yours do not seem to like you very much.”

René laughed and regretted it.

“ _Friends_ is not the word I would use to describe our relationship,” he said sourly, keeping his arms aloft as Erik reached for more of the bandages he'd brought out. “We do business together, sometimes. I... run errands on their behalf.”

The Doctor glanced at him over the rims of his glasses but said nothing as he unraveled another set of wraps.

René did not know this man. He knew nothing about him, aside from his nationality and that he was not the sort of doctor one would make an appointment with in a hospital. He didn't know how safe it was to reveal information about himself or his work, but it felt impolite to sit here in silence, letting the man patch his wounds without any explanation for them. Perhaps it was the alcohol loosening his tongue. Or perhaps he was just being foolish.

“I don't owe them money so much as I _cost_ them money,” he explained, sounding casual to his own ears. “Not that it was their money to start with, but they were very unhappy to lose it.”

“Exhale, as much as you can,” Doctor Erik said quietly, and René did as he was told and breathed out until his chest ached. He didn't even jolt when the Doctor leaned into him, getting more into his personal space than he usually allowed other people to wrap the first loop of the bandage around his chest. He smelled like expensive aftershave and cheap bar soap. The same brand that René had resting in his own shower, bought in bulk from the corner store down the street. It was a wonder the two of them hadn't run into each other there before.

“It must have been a large amount of money, for them to beat you so badly,” Erik said, leaning in around for the second loop. René hesitated before replying.

“The sum that I- that went missing was not so great. A couple grand. The potential profits of the deal were far larger. Hence the beating.”

“Deal?”

“For the- the cargo. It took time to arrange, and apparently I've put a lot of reputations on the line by not getting them their goods on time. A lot of people were paid off to keep this transaction quiet.”

René was talking too much. Maybe the drink was stronger than he first thought. His shoulders were beginning to ache from holding his arms up.

“You are a smuggler?” Erik asked, leaning in again.

He looked at the Doctor sidelong while he was so close, trying to read the man's face. His expression was calmly curious, not accusatory or disapproving. A little fuzzy around the edges.

“I've been known to dabble,” René admitted, blinking. “Goods, mostly. Drugs. I don't- I run the money, I don't transport. And I won't be involved in trafficking. They knew that, but they- the money, it was for-”

He blinked again, more rapidly, shaking his head. The lights were suddenly very bright, and the Doctor was very close, his features distorting slightly. René swallowed and found his throat very dry. His arms slumped heavily to his sides.

“You p... put something in my drink,” he slurred, trying to pull away.

“A mild sedative,” the Doctor said. His voice sounded very far away, but René could feel the hands holding him upright and holding him still. “Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. Keep telling me about these friends of yours. Are they the men who frequent the bar, the larger one at the outside of town? The Sawmill?”

“How did...?”

René was having trouble keeping his eyes open. The Doctor's hands came up to cup his face, holding him at eye level and looking at him very intently. His palms were warm and rough. He pinched René's cheek to keep him focused. His eyes were very, very blue.

“I need you to answer me, René. Are the men in the back room of that bar the men who hurt you?”

René tried to open his mouth, to ask how the hell he knew about the back room, how he knew about any of this in the first place, but all that came out was an unintelligible groan. There was a darkness creeping at the edge of his vision. He couldn't move his limbs, couldn't struggle or pull away. Weakly, he nodded. The Doctor patted his cheek fondly.

“ _Danke,”_ he said, smiling slightly. That face was the last clear thing René saw before his eyes started to roll back into his head. He was aware, briefly, of a pair of strong arms around him, and of being moved. And then there was only darkness.

 

* * *

 

Consciousness returned slowly, and in the form of a headache.

At first, René didn't know where he was. Not at home, clearly. The surface he was laying on was too soft to be his bed. But he didn't remember going out. He didn't remember any trysts, or calling up anyone that might make space for him in their bed. He went home last night. Back to his apartment. He was locked out of his apartment, so he went to-

René opened his eyes, then immediately slammed them shut.

The room was too bright. His skull felt as though it had been cleaved in two, and the more awake he became the more he realized just how much pain the rest of his body was in.

He ignored the ache in his limbs and the throbbing in his head and tried to open his eyes again, tried to see where he was and how he could get out.

There were shelves on the wall across from him, and a low wardrobe. It was familiar, though from a different angle. The room at the end of the hall. So there was a bed in here after all.

He sat up too fast and almost fell over as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He frantically checked himself over, making sure all his clothes were in place. He was shirtless, but he remembered taking it off himself the night before, and the bandages were still wrapped around his ribs. He didn't know if it was safe to remove them yet but it doesn't matter. He unwound them with shaking hands and threw them aside. He was still wearing his belt, at least, and one of his socks. His shoes and other sock were tucked neatly side by side on the floor in front of him.

René looked around, listening for any signs of the doctor still inside the flat. All was quiet.

His jacket was folded at the end of the bed, along with a shirt that wasn't his. His tie was nowhere in sight. The jacket had been washed. Only a few small, faint bloodstains remained on it, and it smelled freshly laundered. He dressed hurriedly and grabbed his shoes.

The apartment was empty.

He poked his head into the bathroom, checking behind the door and the shower curtain, just in case. There was still water on the shower floor, and a damp towel slung over the curtain rod. Another towel, clean and folded, was sitting on the toilet seat. René closed the door.

The living room looked exactly as it had the night before. Somehow emptier in the daylight. Less cozy, and more... staged. It did not look like a home that was lived in.

In the connected kitchen area there was a small table with a single chair. The refrigerator was humming lightly, and the basin that had been used to clean him up the night before was sitting empty by the sink.

There was a note on the kitchen table.

René stared at it. At his name printed at the top, in spiky, slanted handwriting. He did another quick look around the living room, making sure the place was really empty, before picking it up.

 _Apologies,_ it started out.

_I will likely be out when you wake, but I am sorry for any distress that I may have caused you last night or this morning. It was for your own safety. Whether your choose to accept that is up to you._

_I had to burn some of your clothes. There was too much blood. You may keep the shirt._

_There is a glass bowl on the table beside the front door. In it you will find your wallet and what I presume are your keys. There is also a half-empty pack of cigarettes, which I assume are yours because you smell like an ash tray. The wallet was empty when I found it. I apologize for the mess._

_Your debt has been settled._

_You are welcome to shower and to help yourself to any food sitting out, but I cannot guarantee the freshness of anything in the cabinets. The cereal at least is good. Don't worry about the dishes._

_Do not open any of the glass jars, please._

There was a little arrow at the bottom of the page, indicating that he should turn it over. When he did, he nearly dropped it.

_There is seventeen thousand dollars in the refrigerator. You may take all of it._

_I will be home some time after dark. If you are still here, I will give you the rest of the money, but then we will have to leave. I will be leaving regardless of if you chose to join me. I am not unpleasant company._

_If you contact the authorities, I will kill you._

_-Erik_

René let the letter fall from his fingers back onto the table. His hands were shaking again.

Slowly, his eyes turned in the direction of the refrigerator.

He didn't want to open it. He didn't want to know one way or another if there was money in there. A large sum of money, sitting there for him to take. He didn't want to know. But his feet were carrying him across the room. His hand was on the handle. He pulled.

And the money was there.

He slammed the door shut, took a deep breath, and pulled it back open.

So that's what a bag full of seventeen thousand dollars looked like. For him. And the Doctor – Erik – said there was more. There would be even more money if he waited for the man to get home.

How much more? And how long would he have to wait?

_We will have to leave..._

We?

They would have to leave, together? To go where? The letter said Erik would leave no matter what, but still. And with how much money? Why would he allow René to come with him, much less leave so much cash for him in the first place.

René went back to the table and picked up the letter, reading over it several more times.

It was definitely an invitation. A tempting one. The problem was he had no idea what he was being invited to.

_I am not unpleasant company._

He wet his lower lip, then caught it between his teeth as he read over that particular line for the third time. It was not subtle in his meaning, if he was understanding it correctly. He remembered the feel of the Doctor's hands on his face and chest, the sharp edge of his smile. Blue eyes. He'd always had a weakness for blue eyes.

René folded the letter in his hand, then looked toward the front door. There was a little table with a bowl on it, just as the note had said. He walked over to it and peered inside.

His wallet, his keys, and his cigarettes stared back at him.

There was blood in the grooves of the keys. And in the stitching of his wallet. The cigarettes were squashed, but not ruined. There was blood on the packaging as well. But none of it could have been his. They took his things from him before letting him inside, before throwing him into a chair and beating the tar out of him. This was someone else's blood. He swallowed.

It appeared he owed the American in A1 an apology. Clearly he had been mistaken about who was the serial killer in the complex.

He looked back at the refrigerator, and then down at the letter. And then at his keys. Very gingerly, he picked them up.

He left his wallet and smokes, and propped the door to the apartment open with one of his shoes. He didn't want to take the chance of it locking automatically behind him.

He was only leaving to pack a bag, after all.

 


End file.
